


better use

by derryfacts2 (winchysteria)



Series: Derry University [2]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Professors, Angry Sex, Bonus Content, Dirty Talk, Hate Sex, M/M, Office Sex, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, this is my first time going to a true E rating so like lower ur expectations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:42:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23681023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchysteria/pseuds/derryfacts2
Summary: Richie has never seen him in anything but business casual, and the effect is startling: either he has seen and never noticed the fire on Eddie’s face, or he was the one who brought it out.They stand there for a second, Richie’s chest heaving, as Eddie looks over his body furiously. “What?” Richie says, voice rough. “Chickening out?”“Fuck you.”He crosses the room in three strides.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: Derry University [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1758043
Comments: 32
Kudos: 539





	better use

**Author's Note:**

> by popular demand, here's the detailed version of the sex scene that was incredibly tastefully hinted at in my twitter au where they are professors who hate each other. so, like, spoilers for that au if ur reading it. you don't have to know the plot for this to make sense, though, like this fic is not complicated,
> 
> follow me on twitter [@derryfacts2](https://twitter.com/derryfacts2/)  
> follow the au [@derryuniversity](https://twitter.com/derryuniversity/)
> 
> this occurs between posts 41 and 42. it's worth noting that richie calls eddie "eddie" in his internal monologue here, even though that's very much not how he addresses him in the narration of the au. my reasons for this are that it sounded awkward and bad if i tried to write it any other way

Richie had a headache even before the fucking emails. He’d been dry-mouthed and overheated all day, switching pissily between tabs of instruction pages and Youtube tutorials and example paradigms, trying to make something, _anything_ , work right. He’d make progress and find a new problem immediately. He forgot lunch, then dinner. By eight, when his phone dinged with an email from Edward Kaspbrak, he was close enough to a completed pilot to push through it. Just a little longer, he thought. A little further. The extra anxiety of knowing the email was waiting made him a little nauseous.

Finally, he’d exported it and flopped back onto the couch in victory, then returned to the baseline of being a human: food, toothbrush, deodorant, a beer. He still felt like death, but maybe now he was death warmed over.

And then the fucking emails. They had progressed, as he and Kaspbrak seemed to have no choice but to do, from reasonable to petty name-calling in about ten minutes. And Richie lost, apparently, because he’s sitting in the parking lot of Neibolt Hall at ten-thirty on a goddamn Saturday night to return this asshole’s USB. Every minute or so he’s struck with the urge to tighten his fist around it till he hears it crack.

 _yeah, yeah, clench any harder and you’ll break that stick up your ass_ , he types furiously, hitting send as he swings his grubby, complaining body out of the car.

He works himself into a fury as he climbs the steps of Neibolt and swipes his ID card. “Little fucking asshole treating me like I’m one of his fucking research lackeys,” he mutters, stalking through the hallways toward their office block. The lights, which are motion-activated, click on just ahead of him as he storms though. It’s satisfyingly dramatic.

Kaspbrak’s office door is open; they are, of course, the only people in the building besides maybe a security officer wandering listlessly upstairs. They’re the only people stupid enough. The lamplight from his office doorway spills into the dark hall like a dropped napkin.

Richie screws up his face as he whips around the corner into the office.

“I’m not a fucking dog,” he hisses at Eddie’s pale wrathful face, at his big dark eyes cut into half-circles by his eyebrows. “I’m not one of your fucking students that you can order around, goddammit, I am your colleague.”

“Could’ve fucking fooled me,” Eddie snipes. He scoots his desk chair out as if to stand, but he doesn’t. Just sits there leaned forward with his little elbows up on the armrests. “None of my fucking students has ever pulled this shit with me. None of them would be such an asshole about it either.”

“Whose wife did I screw in a previous life to deserve working with you?” Richie asks, feeling a drop of spit fly out of his mouth.

Eddie closes his laptop with a snap and bares his teeth. “I don’t know, but she’s got my fucking pity,” he says. “Would you just give it back and go?”

Richie laughs, a little hysterical hyena scream. “Yeah, here’s your fucking key, man. You’re a real freak, you know that.”

Eddie’s dark sea-at-night eyes follow in horror as Richie brandishes the USB and then smacks it to the desk in front of him.

“Oh, so you took it out of the office and now you’re gonna fucking _break it?”_ Eddie snaps, because that’s really how he talks, as if his sentences are little ice chips he presses to breaking against the roof of his mouth. He slips to the very edge of his seat in his furor. “You are such a fucking idiot, I swear I’m going to—“

Richie, sick to death after ten days, slaps both hands on the desk, leans heavily into them so that he can glare down at Eddie. He looks shadowy and manic in the horizontal white light from his desk lamp, elbows held so tightly against himself that the tendons in his wrists stand out. “What?” Richie spits. “You’re going to do what? Make my fucking life miserable?”

Eddie stands.

For just a second, they hang there like a hummingbird on video, still and shimmering at once. Eddie’s a little taller than Richie, like this. Nose long and condescending. For the first time since they’ve met, Eddie pauses—not like he’s not sure what to say next, but like he can’t think of anything to say at all.

Then Eddie flickers: eyes down to Richie’s neck, lips open then closed, hand darting out to grab Richie’s collar and pull him into a kiss that feels like a car crash.

It’s bruisingly intense, Richie’s knuckles popping up off the desk as his fingers clench. He can feel Eddie inhale sharply, through his nose, against his cheek; Eddie’s lips part and drag damply against Richie’s as he tilts his head and presses closer. It’s like that for a beat of one, two, three: hard and unforgiving, air building in a shaken bottle.

It’s not good, exactly. But it’s something.

As Eddie begins to pull back, Richie’s hands and mouth finally understand what’s going on. He straightens, chasing the kiss, twisting his fingers into Eddie’s shirt. Eddie rounds the desk, and as he does so Richie pulls them together so sharply Eddie’s hip ricochets off its sharp maple corner. “Fuck,” he hisses into Richie’s mouth, and Richie loosens his grip, making to take a step back.

“Shit, are you—“ he starts to say.

But Eddie hauls him back hard. Hands twitching, pressed between Richie and the desk, he breathes against Richie’s lips. One harsh inhale, and then “do not fucking stop,” hips rolling as if to punctuate the negative.

Surging back in is like starting a stick-shift, an elaborate pattern of hands made quick and natural: Richie’s set wide and firm under the back of Eddie’s t-shirt as Eddie grips Richie’s neck and shoulders. Their lips work open, small at first, and then Eddie’s tongue is at the seam of his mouth and Richie catches the tip of it in his teeth. New gear. Eddie shudders and dives, tongue laving across the roof of Richie’s mouth, pulling him closer by the back of the neck. His hands are cool and rough and they have this pressure at the fingertips that makes Richie groan.

He hasn’t kissed anyone like this since he was in college, probably, using sex to take out his frustrations about who he wanted it with, bruising himself on bedframes and biting into shoulders. Like he’s trying to turn into a cartoon dust cloud with them, just merging into the same space where they can fuck each other up in peace.

He’s hard in minutes, pawing over Eddie’s back to grab his ass, and when he squeezes Eddie leans back into it in a way that presses Richie’s knuckles painfully against the desk. “Fucking, c’mon, up,” he says, pushing at Eddie’s hip with his other hand, and Eddie complies, sitting back. Those dark eyes are wild and unfocused, hair pushed out of order; Richie wants to lick the muscle flexing on the side of his neck and so he does. It’s bitter at first, then salty, then just warm. A noise bursts in Eddie’s throat and Richie’s hips jerk up. “Fucking shit, already,” Eddie says, flexing long against him like a bowstring. “Shit, you’re so—“

He doesn’t finish the sentence, instead wrapping an ankle around Richie’s calf to tug them closer together, to shove his thigh between Richie’s. It’s clumsy, but there Eddie is, hot and hard even through their layers of clothing. His hands spasm where they’re curled over the top of Richie’s shoulders.

“Great observation, doctor,” Richie pants against him, nipping the shell of his ear. “I sure am.”

Eddie groans and winds a hand up to pull at Richie’s hair, and a spike of something hot and urgent flies through his spine. “Guh,” he says, embarrassingly, and Eddie takes the sound right from his mouth with his tongue.

It is, apparently, clear immediately that a sharp tug at Richie’s hair makes him into putty, and Eddie takes the opportunity to tilt him sideways, getting access to Richie’s jaw and neck, trailing his teeth wet and careless along the line to Richie’s ear. “Your big—stupid—and with the stubble—“ he mutters nonsensically as he bites at the corner of Richie’s jaw. “Fucking Christ, distracting.”

He licks the shell of Richie’s ear, grazes his teeth over the lobe, and when Richie’s breath hitches he does it again. Eddie’s mouth seems impossibly hot against his skin; surely he’s going to die of thirst before anything else happens. He shoves his fingers down past the waistband of Eddie’s pants and grips tight, giving in to the urge to roll them together again. He feels frantic, lost in the weeds.

Eddie half-hiccups, then stills. “Wait,” he says, and Richie freezes. He shifts back.

Eddie slips off the desk and past him to close the door. “Don’t want anybody,” he mutters, and Richie clears his throat and says “yeah, sure.”

When Eddie turns back, Richie is suckerpunched by how destroyed he looks: red across the lips and cheeks from Richie’s day-old beard, t-shirt rucked up past his stark-shadowed hipbones. Richie has never seen him in anything but business casual, and the effect is startling: either he has seen and never noticed the fire on Eddie’s face, or he was the one who brought it out.

They stand there for a second, Richie’s chest heaving, as Eddie looks over his body furiously. “What?” Richie says, voice rough. “Chickening out?”

“Fuck you.”

Eddie crosses the room in three strides, pulling Richie down by the neck with one hand and tugging at the front of Richie’s sweatpants with the other. He kisses, this time, like he’s found his road map, tongue reaching for the back of Richie’s molars. Richie barely manages to get a hand on the small of his back before Eddie’s pulling away and looking down at where his fingers are hooked on the elastic of Richie’s pants.

Eddie’s face twitches. “I wanna—“

“Fucking yes, Jesus, anything, shit,” Richie rushes desperately, hips rocking toward Eddie’s hand.

Eddie braces himself on Richie’s hips as he drops to his knees.

It’s a Saturday; Richie didn’t bother to put on any underwear. He’s been sweating in those pajama pants since that morning. And when Eddie tugs them down, Richie’s not yet too far gone to see the way Eddie grinds the heel of his hand into his own crotch. The reality of the situation suddenly hits him: he’s half-naked in Edward Kaspbrak’s office, with the man himself kneeling on the floor in front of him, apparently getting off just on looking at him.

“You need a fuckin’ manual?” Richie says, throat strung tight.

Eddie drags both hands, blunt nails first, across the inside of Richie’s thighs, and Richie almost sobs. “Big talk,” Eddie says calmly, and then takes Richie in hand—not moving, not anything, just looking.

Patiently, Eddie watches as bead of precome gathers at the tip, and then darts forward to lick it off. Richie grips the edge of the desk so hard he thinks he might break it. “Cat got your tongue?” Eddie says, jacking him slowly.

“Fuck,” Richie says eloquently: Eddie’s hand is cold, at first, and it tugs at something in his stomach; he wants to pull back and push into it at the same time.

Eddie tuts and sucks the head of Richie’s cock into his mouth.

Richie’s swollen with it already, every nerve in his body singing; Eddie’s mouth is still hot and clever and his tongue moves, exploratory, over the slit. He’s frustratingly calm, eyes half-lidded. Richie’s groan feels like it comes from his fucking feet. 

“Jesus, you’ll kill me,” he says, slurring.

Eddie takes him a little deeper, and Richie curses again, feeling Eddie’s tongue push against the ridge of his head. “Shit, shit, fine, will you—“

He sees Eddie’s left hand clench in his lap again.

Richie laughs, high and goofy. “Oh! You want me to talk,” he says, delighted. Eddie glares up at him, hollowing his cheeks in revenge, and Richie’s hips jerk, but he doesn’t let it go. “You want me to tell you how you look sucking me off. You like it.”

And honest-to-god, his lips stretched spit-wet and shiny around Richie’s dick, Eddie rolls his eyes. He moves his free hand to Richie’s hip and digs his nails in, a silent reprimand, and Richie sucks in a breath. “Yeah, like that,” he says. “That feels fucking—“

Eddie takes him in further, lips meeting his hand on every pass, and Richie’s not in his throat but he can still feel it when Eddie swallows. “You feel so good,” Richie says helplessly, watching the little rocking motions of Eddie’s hips. “Your mouth, fucking, how is it this wet, how are you so— _uh,”_ and Eddie drops his hand and his pretenses and swallows Richie to the root.

The world falls to drips around him, a melting-clock painting, everything insubstantial and liquid except the muscular press of Eddie’s tongue to the underside of his cock, the way fingers flex against Richie’s hip as Eddie negotiates a little leverage. When Richie’s hips press forward, minutely, Eddie simultaneously pushes him back against the desk and follows with his mouth, not giving an inch.

Panting to the brink of a moan, Richie makes a valiant effort to pull his thoughts together and can’t. He just can’t. His hands, of their own accord, drop heavily to Eddie’s hand where it sits on his hip and Eddie’s head where it bounces slowly on his cock with the finesse of an old carnival ride: frustratingly slow; inexorably effective. He toys with Eddie’s hair mindlessly, brushing it back from his forehead and face, and Eddie’s eyes fall shut. His lashes lie like feathers against the exhausted skin under his eyes.

Richie says everything he can think of to say, which is a predictably limited list: _fuck,_ and _shit,_ and _take it, take it all, suck me off, fuck you look good like this, get an award for it, give you a medal,_ the last of which earns him one quizzically-opened eye and a critical eyebrow. Then Richie falls off into a little wading pool of _ah_ and _fuck_ as Eddie buries his nose in the hair at Richie’s pubic bone, surrounding every centimeter of him wet heat till both their eyes water. Richie looks down at him through hooded eyes and watches the bob of Eddie’s capable throat.

 _“Fuck,”_ he says again, emphatically. “I’m—”

Eddie moves again, no faster and no slower than before. He hooks his left arm around Richie’s hips to keep him close and presses his right hand back into the hardness in his jeans, staving his own release off. That, maybe more than anything, more than the little flourish of a tongue curl that Eddie adds at the end of every stroke, more than the way he stares Richie down through his dark lashes, is what finishes him. Richie comes with a sob into that for-once patient mouth, hotter and harder for how much Eddie refused to speed it along.

Either because he underestimated how effective his techniques were, or because he’s a literal sex weapon programmed to destroy all Richies within a hundred mile radius, Eddie pulls off just a little early. Just enough that a single pale-white string droops down from his bottom lip to hit the office carpet. Richie watches it fall for one second, two, maybe a hundred years, before he swipes Eddie’s lip with his thumb and taps him under the chin, coaxing him up in the best way he can with all the bones gone out of his body like that.

He feels lazily brave: he crossed the border of being undone in front of this person, and so now, who fucking cares? Who cares if he wants to kiss Eddie extra wet and sloppy, pushing spit into his mouth just to see if he’ll take it (he will)? Who cares if he smooths his hand down Eddie’s sides like you’d calm a racehorse?

Not Eddie, clearly. When Richie pulls him forward into a longer, deeper kiss, chasing the taste of himself from Eddie’s mouth, he can tell that he’s rock-hard and desperate inside his jeans. The zipper catches the skin on the inside of Richie’s thigh, so he scoots back a little onto the desk and pops Eddie’s fly with one hand, pushing the rough fabric out of the way in favor of the soft elasticity of a pair of actual Calvin Klein boxer briefs. He’s about to make a joke about it, something half-assed about overcompensating, before his fingertips brush against a wet patch and he’s distracted completely.

Richie sucks in a breath. “What, you got that hard from choking on my dick?”

Eddie, flushed and needy, drops his head heavily to Richie’s shoulder, mouthing at the side of his neck without focus or technique. “Shut up and get me off.”

Richie laughs, not cruelly. He feels loose-limbed and stupid, leaning heavily back on the desk with his left hand and fumbling at the hard-velvet shape of Eddie with his right. “Bet it’ll be easy,” he says. “Bet I barely have to do anything.”

Eddie bites him, then loops an arm around Richie’s waist, pulling them flush from hip to shoulder and grinding himself into Richie’s hand. “You’re not _doing_ anything now.”

It really does take so little. Richie licking at the hollows in Eddie’s neck, rewarding his little noises with a steady, rocking pressure through Eddie’s briefs. “Yeah, go ahead,” Richie says as he presses his nose just under Eddie’s ear, then scrapes with his teeth. “Go ahead and come for me.”

Eddie’s hand ricochets to the side of Richie’s face, and Richie opens enough to suck fiercely on the pad of his thumb.

Thirty seconds. Not even. A handful of strokes, and Richie asking less-than-nicely, and Eddie’s spilling into his own underwear with a choked-off and combative cry against Richie’s collarbone. Richie tightens his thighs around Eddie’s hips as he comes down, a little Kaspbrakian chant of _oh my god, oh shit._

They don’t kiss again, afterward, much as Richie thinks idly that he might like to. Instead, Eddie pulls back, pushing off Richie’s body where he’d clung so tightly to it like a mollusk pushing off a rock. The first thing he says is “eugh,” as he buttons his jeans around the mess of himself, but the second thing is “is your bare ass on the surface of my desk right now?”

“Sure is,” Richie says, pleased. Eddie doesn’t have a follow-up.

They’re gone fast, Richie pulling his pants up and his sweatshirt back down even through the worst case of jello-bones he thinks he’s ever had. His thighs twitch as he leaves the building like he’s just run a marathon or given a speech. He can hear Eddie leave behind him. Like a responsibly horny Orpheus, he manages not to look back.

Instead, he turns on his car engine and waits for the heaters, thinking very specifically of nothing. He watches Eddie’s headlights flare white and peel out of the lot. There’s something he forgot in that office, he’s sure; he just can’t think of what.


End file.
